


The Fall of Icarus

by RabbitKinder



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: And yay- first time using this site- we'll see how it goes, F/M, and I hardly ever see anything of the two of them, but were they to be in a relationship I think it would be fantastic and rather interesting honestly, shit man I don't know I just think they'd get along really well, so...here we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6956077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitKinder/pseuds/RabbitKinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was that story they made him learn in school, about some Greek bloke that made wings out of candle wax and pillow feathers? He wanted to fly out of a tower he was imprisoned in, but when he got off the ground, it all rushed to his head. He wanted to fly higher, wanted to touch the sun. The sniper looked to the horizon to the last sign of day as it slipped into dusk, and imagined the Greek boy racing towards it with his arms pumping his arms faster and faster. He’d be so ecstatic. He’d think he was so close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> *gently places hands on desk*  
> There is not enough of this ship. I know it's not a very popular one...but damn it I really do like the idea.  
> Also, fair warning- I haven't written for a while due to university. As such, these fingers are a little rusty. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things but this may take some time. If you see something that looks off, let me know.

       The van was stifling and reeked of her perfume. This was compounded by Miss Pauling sitting next to him, fanning herself with the road map as the sniper’s hand shook and slipped on the window crank, desperate for some fresh air. 

       “How much longer until we get to Fresno?” The question was stated in a tone that was coolly professional even though the woman who said it was drowning in sweat.

       “We’re in Arizona now, so I’d say we’re about halfway. Eight hundred more kilometers give or take.”

       “Which translates to how many hours?”

       The sniper breathed in through his teeth, looking at the sky as he did quick math, “Seven?”

       The silence resumed. Sniper watched the sun, low, and fat, and orange, hovering over the highway. He wondered briefly what it would have been like to drive the car to that point on the horizon and reach his hand out of the window to touch it.

       He took a gulp from the thermos water, then offered it to Miss Pauling.

       “Thanks.”

       He said nothing, but watched out of the corner of his eye as she turned towards the passenger window, taking small sips, sitting with her own thoughts.

       The sniper took a deep breath, “Watcha thinking ‘bout?”

       “Hm?”

      “You look like you’re worrying over something. Watcha thinking about?”

      “Oh, nothing,” She closed the thermos before setting it between her legs, freeing up her hands so as to run them through her sweaty hair. The sniper pushed his glasses higher up his nose and watched her in silence. The van swerved. “Just debating whether or not we should break.”

       “I have no problem with driving.”

       “We’ve been at this for nine hours, and it’s supposed to rain on Friday so the parade will be pushed to Saturday. We can take a break and not worry about losing our hit, guaranteed.”

       “Weathermen are paid to be wrong.”

       “We could stop in Winslow, or Flagstaff. Hell, we could sleep in the Kaibab park. That would be really nice, don’t you think? Little bit of a rest?”

       “It’s too hot in here, isn’t it.”

       She paused, then let out a sigh, “It’s like swimming in an oven.”

       “I can pull over. You can set yourself up in the back.”

       “I need to be here to give you directions.”

       Sniper raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the single road that stretched for what seemed like eternity before them. The van fishtailed a little before he placed his hand back on the wheel.

       “You’re also exhausted,” Miss Pauling added, inspecting him through narrowed eyes. Sniper shook his head, pushing his sunglasses farther up his nose. “Oh knock it off, please? We both need a rest, so let’s just-.”

       He cranked the dial for the radio harder than intended, and the button came off in his hands as the machine boomed.

“-So high you can't get over it

Da-yee do do do do do do

This is a chance-”

       The sniper gave a rumble of frustration as Pauling tried to turn the radio off using the metal peg that was all that remained of the dial. Her fingers kept slipping in the summer heat, and her hair, lifting with the humidity, tickled the arm of the Australian.

“-This is a chance

Dance your way

Out of your constrictions

Tell sugah-”

       She reached for his hand that was now fist down in the middle of the bench seat, startling him. Her fingers dipped between his and took radio knob from him, which she smashed back onto the peg.

       The sniper’s ears rang in the sudden silence. 

       “Stop trying to derail me,” Her tone did not raise above a murmur, but that did nothing to diminish its edge “You are tired. I am tired. We both need rest. Please, just stop the van.”

       The sniper drummed his fingers on the steering wheel slowly, pointedly, then pulled the vehicle off to the side of the dusty highway. Miss Pauling sighed and whispered in thanks, wiping a hand across her forehead as she once again rolled the window down. Once the van was parked on the berm, the sniper flung open his door and threw himself into the open.

       Pauling called after him, “I’m just going to sleep in the back, okay?” to which he just waved a hand before continuing to stumble away. She spoke again, something distant, something he could not hear, but he did not turn around.

       He kept walking.

       And walking.

       Fingers wrestled with buttons, then gave up and tugged the whole shirt over his head. He was in the process of using it to wipe the sweat from his neck and brow when, in a sudden instance, he stiffened and threw it away from him, cursing.

       It smelled like her.

       Sand and heat and mingling sweat and her- her bleeding perfume.

       He really couldn’t take this.

       The sniper sat down, then fell back into the sand, eyes closed.

       Christ, he was 47 years old. He shouldn’t have a prepubescent school boy’s crush on a proper lady of 28 years. It was disgusting. Propriety chewed at his heart, poking its teeth through soft emotions and mocking him for his lack of professionalism. Lord though, there was something terribly gentle about the way she carried her ferocity. She was beautiful, like a poison dart frog, like an iris. She’d kill him in a heartbeat if she knew what he felt, what he thought, and while he hoped that line of thinking would quell the desire, it only made his skin prickle in distaste of its loneliness.

       He ran a hand over his thin chest, felt the puckering of scars, and winced.

       Wasn’t like she’d want him anyway.

       The sniper moaned and rolled over, rubbing his face into the sand.

       Dying made you think about a lot of things. It made you think about all the things you’ve done and all the things you never got around to doing. It made you remember all of your regrets. It made you hate yourself for wasting time. He was used to near death experiences, and thus he was used to the aftermath of numbness. Actually dying, though, that was different. It took a chunk of something out of him, something that made him register that he was actually still alive. There was this deep numbness in his bones now, a nagging sensation that he wasn’t actually real. Every night he’d see his life rewind and think, ‘This is it. Ride’s over. I’m officially done,’ only to wake up and go to work the next day. He felt like he was living on borrowed time, measured by the teeth of a gear in a vicious clock.

       It was only when he was with Pauling that he felt- he didn’t know how to put it exactly- close to normal, close to being the way that most people must feel. He wanted to be real so badly that it hurt, and  this was all because of a person who was paid to put the right people in the right shallow graves.

      It was a sick sort of funny.

       Slowly, he sat up, opening his eyes and blinking away the blue. He looked into the sun, then looked around him, listening to the near silent hum of the desert.

       His shirt still lay on the ground where he left it.

       There was a moment of hesitancy, a moment where he pulled back, where he had full intentions of never touching the thing again, but he couldn’t go through with it. The sniper crawled over to where his shirt lay and stared at it while blue haze swam across his eyes, making the red look more like bruised plum.

       It seemed to take forever for him to pick it up. It seemed so hard to hold it to his face and breathe.

       He was pathetic, he really was.

       The sniper regretted much when it came to his affections, but above all else, right at that moment, he regretted being so curt with her. It could be chalked it up to a knee jerk reaction, a desire to keep his distance from his employer’s secretary, but that was no excuse. He wasn’t a child anymore, he was a man.

       The sniper took another deep breath, simultaneously tasting and smelling the perfume that clung to his shirt.

       Had it ever been this difficult? He wasn’t sure. The last time he could remember feeling this strongly about a person was when he was fifteen. She was his best mate’s mum. A single woman to be sure, but there was a clear line he chose not to cross. At night, with his hands low under the covers and his breaths coming in small huffs, he had told himself it would pass, it would never be this bad again, it was just hormones. He wouldn’t be fifteen forever.

       No, now he was 47 now with his heart reduced to a quivering pile of mush every time a woman half his age so much as asked how his day was. He was a fully grown man kneeling in the sand, smelling his shirt because it happened to have caught the scent of her perfume. He was just a fucking freak who didn’t have the excuse of being a rammy teenager.

       What was that story they made him learn in school, about some Greek bloke that made wings out of candle wax and pillow feathers? He wanted to fly out of a tower he was imprisoned in, but when he got off the ground, it all rushed to his head. He wanted to fly higher, wanted to touch the sun. The sniper looked to the horizon to the last sign of day as it slipped into dusk, and imagined the Greek boy racing towards it with his arms pumping his arms faster and faster. He’d be so ecstatic. He’d think he was so close.

       The sniper wondered if the kid even knew he was dying when he caught fire, or if the adrenalin just overwhelmed his system.  

       He refused to cry.

       He was a professional, and even if he didn’t feel like it, he would damn well act like it.

       The sniper held his breath as he pulled his shirt back on. He’d hold himself together, he’d do it. He’d be a professional. He’d be a proper, normal human being and keep his feet firmly on the ground. There’d be no sun chasing or romancing for him, no. He wasn’t built for that, it just wasn’t in the stars.

       “It’s fine,” the sniper muttered, saying the lie out loud to solidify it into fact, “It’s good, it’s all good.”

       Though his knees shook and his legs threatened to give out, he stood and walked back towards the van.

       Pauling was stretched out in the bucket seat, curling at the edges so as to avoid touching the doors. The sniper watched her from the other side of the driver’s window while he clenched and unclenched his hands. Gently, and with a great desire to be as quiet as physically possible, he opened the door.

       She stirred, then blinked up at him.

       “How long have we been here?”

      The sniper checked his watch as she yawned, “About half an hour.”

       “Damn, I needed that,” Miss Pauling muttered as she stretched. The sniper faced the road while she did so.

       “I think you’re right,” he said, still not looking at her, “I think it would be smart to kip in for the night somewhere.”

       She sat up then and ran her fingers through her hair to tuck down the flyaway strands, “Really? You’re not going to fight me on it?”

       “Nah,” the sniper said as he pulled himself into the van, taking great care to not intrude upon Pauling’s space as she scooched back into the passenger side of the seat, “ ‘m not going to fight you on it anymore. And ah, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for being so short with you earlier. Guess you were right- was too damn hot in this van. Still, no excuse.”

       He ignored Pauling’s stare as he started the car and put it in gear. It wasn’t until he had turned back onto the road that she finally spoke, “Is, um, is everything okay? With you, I mean?”

       “Yeah,” the sniper flashed her a grin, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, “Yeah, I’m fine.”


End file.
